


the pale morning sings of forgotten things

by phwaa



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phwaa/pseuds/phwaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the very start, there was everything. At the very end, there was her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the pale morning sings of forgotten things

 

 

 

THE PALE MORNING SINGS OF FORGOTTEN THINGS

(First Aid Kit; The Lion’s Roar)

(Inspired by [this](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0338013/))

 

 

 

At the very start, there was everything. At the very end, there was her.

Twisting through memories, a dog, a soldier, a limp.  One by one, they disappear and Samaritan takes it all.

And then there’s this.

“What’s this?” Root asks, muffled beneath the sheets.

“You.” She says, watching absently as she disappears.

At the very end, there was her. And then there was nothing.

 

\--

 

At the very start, there was this:

“I didn't want it to come to this.” Greer says, stepping back and smiling. The headpiece he’s holding looks heavy but his lips don’t waver. “But if you won’t tell us about her, I’m afraid we’ll have to take it from you.”

A picture of Root hovers against the wall, strains against the tape and Shaw’s chest aches.

“Really,” Shaw says, tries for a smile that dies before it begins, “there’s nothing to tell.”

Greer’s head falls to the side, a sigh floats between them and even in the face of disbelief he looks composed and elegant. “My dear, we've all seen the video.” She feels utterly empty sometimes, at the mention of this. “Your relationship with Ms Groves is rather special, is it not?”

“No.” She bites it out and has to look away from the picture.

An eyebrow is raised. “How does she contact the Machine?”

“She doesn't.” It’s a lie, it’s a lie, it’s a lie. He can see straight through her.

“How does the Machine contact her?”

Swallowing, she stares forward and, “it doesn't.”

It takes almost a minute for him to react, and then he’s nodding his head slowly and lifting the headpiece up to the table at the bottom of the bed. “The problem is, my dear Sameen, you aren't very helpful. And we need this information.”

Shaw tries for a smile, attempts a half shrug, but her eyes don’t stray from the horrible object balanced above the table-top. “What can you do?” She sighs, says it like it’s all a bit hopeless, but she’s sure they can actually do something. She just doesn't know what.

“Samaritan is vastly greater than your Machine, darling.” Greer looks ugly when he smiles. Martine walks in, heads straight for the headpiece in front and then looks up. “Based primarily on your visual recognition, this helmet will follow your brainwaves and turn it into code.”

Shaw looks up and blinks slowly. “Sounds exciting.” She says, but her heart thinks differently. It stalls and drops against a pit forming.

Nodding, Greer gestures Martine forward as Samaritan soldiers start descending in. “Like I said, my dear,” he says, watching as Shaw struggles against the hold, “if you won’t tell us about Ms Groves and the Machine, then we’ll have to take the information from you.”

“You can’t do that.” Shaw growls, thrashing her head up and around until there are hands forcing her cheeks still. “It’s impossible.”

Greer doesn't look fazed. The helmet is sliding down against her temples, wires tangling in fists above and Martine’s face leering just in front. “Not that you’ll remember,” she hears Greer sneer from below, “but I’m afraid you’re about to be proven wrong.”

There’s a monitor somewhere behind her that beeps with recognition as the straps buckle beneath her chin. “Do you want to count down,” Martine sings, a finger stroking across Shaw’s face, “or shall I?”

“Go to hell.” Shaw spits up, watches the liquid splatter up and Martine blink away. Soldiers are still pinning her down, the metal feels cool against her skin and Shaw can’t look away quick enough when there’s a picture held in front. There’s Root, tripping back against an elevator and a black coat dancing off into the distance.

 “10,” Martine says, pushing the picture closer. (Root, Root, Root.) “9,” the wires whir and the headpiece pushed to her scalp jolts. She feels her body fly off the bed before the electricity reaches her temples.

“8.”

(This is where everything had ended.)

“7,” Martine sounds smug. Shaw can’t keep her eyes open. “6.”

(Root, Root, Root. This is where she fell.)

“5…”

(Root, Root, Root.

She’s gone.)

Distantly, she hears everything end.

 

\--

 

10.

(Remember, remember, remember)

Opening her eyes, she’s back where it ended.

It’s cold and suffocating and Finch is pressing frantically and talking about second chances whilst Reese bleeds out behind them. Beside her, Root is swaying.

And then there’s a red button, across the hallway beside an empty desk. Back then, she’d known immediately.

“Sameen,” she hears, hissed into the heavy air, nails digging into her wrist, “if you even think I’m going to let you.”

Swiveling around, Root’s glare is the same. There’s fear settling shallow in her eyes and her head shakes slightly. Shaw hates herself, pulling leather closer and pressing her lips up. It feels like goodbye and her lips remain cold throughout. It lasts seconds, and then she’s pushing away, watching feet stumble and a mouth hang open.

Just like before, she reaches up, feels metal against her fingers and then-

“And then you left.” Root says, stepping out of Fusco’s grasp and watching Shaw hesitate. “You betrayed us all.”

Dazed and confused, she scoffs back. “I saved you all.”

This isn't what happened; this isn't how this scene was supposed to play out. Her memory is mixed and Shaw’s arm drops down and swings away. There are no agents running around the corner, no elevator jutting up and the others stay frozen as Root walks closer.

Briefly, she remembers wires and a helmet and a steady countdown from ten. “What’s going on?”

Root’s eyebrow curves. “Don’t tell me you've forgotten already, Sameen?”

“No.” She says, shakes her head and steps back, back, back until Root’s stepping off the elevator and floating forward. “Just, remind me?”

There’s silence. Silence, as Reese lies against a metal floor with blood that has stopped flowing. Silence, as Finch looks bewildered and broken as he loses yet another friend. Silence, as Fusco’s fingers remain reaching for a woman that has somehow managed to warp time and memory.

Silence, silence, silence and Root looks sad when she whispers, “they’re taking me from you.”

Stepping back and shaking, Shaw doesn't remember a thing. “No.” She says. “How?”

“Samaritan is scanning now,” Root shrugs, purses her lips and moves so much closer. “They’re tracking a path back in your head and storing the information, deleting your memory as it goes.” Shaw falls against a button and feels it firm along her spine. Once, it had been so easily pushed. “They’re deleting me, Shaw.”

Right here, now, this had been their first kiss since Root had left the hotel with deadly vials awaiting decontamination. Shaw had left this building with a last kiss on her lips and a cry in her ears. The hallway had sung silent in her collapse. Looking up, Root is merely a memory in her head.

“They can’t.”

“Sweetie,” Root tilts her head as her neck stretches and curves. “They’re already doing it.”

(Root, Root, Root. Everything ends with Root.)

White walls and piercing blue in front, Shaw looks around and panics. Samaritan will know everything, eventually, they’ll take it all and destroy her team with the memories they pull out of her. “How do I stop them?”

Root, her only companion in this and yet still just a figment of her imagination, just shrugs. “You can’t.”

Slowly, the elevator washes out, the colors leak and bleed down and Shaw frowns as it disappears. Slowly, she forgets what was there to begin with.

Turning to watch blue fade to white, Root looks back and frowns.

Again, again, again. “Tell me how to stop this.” Shaw doesn't plead, but she steps forward and grips at Root’s jacket.

“Take me somewhere.” She says. “Don’t take me to the subway, don’t give them that. Think about a memory off-track, somewhere they won’t be able to follow.”

“Okay,” Shaw nods, breathes in, breathes out. “Okay.”

Looking up, Root smiles and Shaw can’t help but trace the lips in front before blinking away.

(Root, Root, Root.)

It all disappears.

 

\--

 

9.

The warehouse smells of sick, this is the first thing that comes back. It hits her suddenly and when she’s blinking around and aware, she notes only briefly Reese’s retreating form as he cuffs a fat man in a suit.

(Remember, remember, remember.)

Their number had tried and failed to set fire to the building. Reese shouts something about cleaning up before the cops arrive and Shaw grunts back an acknowledgment. There’s a puddle of sick beside a bucket of gasoline and Shaw can barely remember the shaky man that had held the match.

“Looks like he left you a treat.” She hears, turns to see Root leaning casually against the door Reese had just closed. “Don’t you love it when they do that?”

Something in her head flickers, the walls curve and sink in before standing straight again. Everything is off-kilter.

“Go away, Root.”

It’s taken as an invitation. Root sways closer, one foot slowly stepping in front of the other and the click of her boots echo and simmer out. “Oh, come on. I can help.”

It scares her, how much she enjoys the push and pull of this relationship. Shaw is constantly drawn to this woman and her head wants her to leave. Sometimes, her chest aches and wants nothing more than to drag her closer, closer, closer. “You have better things to be doing than checking up on us.” Shaw says, shuffling back. “I’m sure that thing in your ear would agree.”

(Something jolts. There’s a shock that runs past her brain and leaves her frowning.)

“She hasn't given me an order yet.” Root says, still moving closer. Too close for Shaw’s liking.

(Samaritan takes it. The information disappears and Shaw can’t remember talking about an ear and orders. They know, they know, they know. They’ll take it all.)

Huffing, Shaw pushes a pistol down against her back and looks around for a brush. “I don’t have time for this.” She grunts, turning to watch Root smile and something makes her stop. A few feet away, Root does the same.

“Time, time, time.” Root sings. It sounds distant and Shaw looks up to watch her lips curve and pucker. “We don’t ever have enough, do we, Sameen?”

(Remember, remember, remember.)

10, 9, 8… this is a memory, she thinks. This is where she’s taken Root.

“It’s overrated.” She says, like she did back then. And Root nods, steps forward slowly and Shaw remembers what’s coming. Looking up, she feels her breath hitch and her chest tighten. Years ago, Shaw had known what was coming and had wanted to run.

Now, she wants to stay forever.

Descending down, Root’s breath is warm against her lips and Shaw feels a nose brush against her cheek before what she thinks is a kiss.

It doesn't come.

Hot air dances against Shaw’s mouth and Root’s eyes open and stay fixed. “This didn't happen.” Root says, it feels like a whisper. “You ran, remember.”

It never did quite happen. This was never their first kiss. Shaw steps away and tries for a defense. “I didn't run.” It’s a lie. “I was busy, I had things to do.”

Root doesn't look convinced. “You weren't ready.”

Back then, she’d ran and ran and ran. Root had kissed her months after this and Shaw had already imagined it constantly. “Not everything is about you, Root.” She says, but she remembers looking up to lips before bringing them here. She’d once thought this was a mistake.

“Samaritan found us.” Root says, ignoring Shaw completely. She’s stepped so far back, Shaw wouldn't be able to reach her if she tried. It matters, somehow. “They followed us, and soon they’ll decode what’s transpired here and they’ll know.”

“Know what?”

Root doesn't answer, walks forward and smiles instead. She doesn't want to forget this woman ever, she aches at the thought.

(Root, Root, Root. This will kill her.)

Slowly, the walls are disappearing and the open sky hangs above. She doesn't know why she’s here at all. A mission, she thinks, and smells sick.

All of a sudden, nothing makes sense. In the real world, she’s strapped to a bed with a metal helmet hanging against her head and an almighty AI stealing everything she once knew. “I’m going to forget you.” Shaw says, looking back.

For a brief and glorious second, Root looks like she panics. “Hide me somewhere they won’t find us. Take me to a hidden memory.” Root’s suddenly so much closer. “You need to bury me, Sameen.”

Nodding, Shaw bites at her lip and steps forward so she can grab at Root’s wrist.

The floor erodes away and is slowly replaced with sand. The sky gets grey and the clouds get heavy.

She never comes back here.

 

\--

 

8.

She never comes back here.

The beach is windy, the sea looks cold and there’s a little girl kicking at the waves. There’s a woman sitting on a blanket further away, her eyes are empty and her face thin.

“She looks sad.” Root says, swaying beside her. The wind pulls them back and Shaw drops Root’s arm immediately.

Watching the woman in front and only briefly looking down to the little girl, Shaw nods. “She is.”

It doesn't take long for Root to take it all in. It’s mere minutes and then she’s turning and asking, “where’s your dad?”

She doesn't hesitate, remembers it all clearly. “Dead.”

Samaritan would never come looking for Root here, she thinks. Weeks before, she’d been pulled from a car and this had been Sameen’s first real holiday. The beach was windy, the sea was cold and her mother had been sad. But Sameen Shaw had stayed for hours.

When she turns to Root, her smile looks thin but it’s there nonetheless.

“I’m glad you took me here.” She says, and it makes Shaw regret it. Perhaps Root doesn't deserve this; perhaps this is yet another mistake she finds herself making in the wake of this woman.

Shaw is filling with regret, her fists are clenching and her mother pulls out a tissue to drag across her face. Soon, she won’t recognize this at all. Soon, this will disappear like everything else.

The sand whips up and she jumps. Root asks, “how did he die?” But she already knows.

The girl by the sea glitches and starts to fade and Shaw panics. It’s all disappearing.

“How did who die?” She asks, frowning.

Root looks startled. “Remember, Shaw.” She says, reaching in front. “Please remember.”

(Remember, remember, remember.)

 

\--

 

7.

(Remember, remember, remember.)

There’s a car on fire.

“I didn't mean to bring you here.” She says instantly. “I didn't want to bring you here.”

Shaw is stepping forward, walking closer and feeling the heat across her skin. This isn't a memory she wants to remember. This isn't a memory she wants to forget.

“You’re so small.” Root whispers from somewhere behind her. “Sameen-”

“Don’t.” Shaw swivels around, sees water balancing on the edge of Root’s eyes and feels anger. “You don’t belong here.”

Briefly, Root looks hurt. “You brought me here.”

Looking back to a girl covered in ash and dirt, Shaw pulls Root back and slams her eyes shut.

The sky remains dark but her ears open up. There’s a sad, slow hum sifting through her head and then-

 

\--

 

6.

Root is humming.

When she opens her eyes, she’s in an empty bar and there’s music playing from above. Across from her, Root is already dancing.

She doesn't remember this, thinks maybe Finch forced them out of the subway and Root had dragged her here before she could escape to her apartment. Forever an adventure, Shaw always followed. Feet moving forward and a hand beckoning her closer, she stops before she reaches the dance floor.

“Don’t be boring, Sameen.” Root says, hips swaying to the music as her hands drag around her waist. Shaw can’t look away and for the first time in these sequences, she can’t remember what had happened next. “Dance with me.”

One thing she knows for sure is that she doesn't dance. Rhythm comes naturally when there’s a trigger hard beneath her finger but she fumbles to a normal beat. Root’s eyes are shining, her smile spectacular and Shaw thinks if she ever did decide to dance, it would be now. It would be with this woman, in this bar, before they cease to exist entirely.

“I don’t dance.” She says, instead. The music is slow but Root is rocking slower.

Root is undeterred. “Why?” She asks, sashaying closer. Stilling for only seconds, she murmurs, “you won’t remember it.”

And it’s true, but it still hurts.

Shaking her head and watching Root pull hair from her face, Shaw hopes that, even if nothing else stays with her after this, the hum that lasts minutes and twists in her gut will remain. It’s not the tune coming from the speakers, but it sounds beautiful from Root’s lips regardless.

Almost forgetting the conversation before, Shaw blinks and says, “neither will you.”

Root tut-tuts. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

(Root, Root, Root. Samaritan will find them and pull them apart until brown hair wrenches only a snippet of recognition.)

The music glitches, the stereo crackles and Shaw looks around frantically before turning back to an undeterred dancer.

It hurts, then, so suddenly she grips at her stomach. “Why are they taking you?”

Root twirls, winks when she makes a full circle and probably thinks she looks cute. “I’m the analogue interface.” She says. “The connection to the Machine.”

Nodding, Shaw whispers, “that’s it?” They could've chosen to take Reese as well, if they’d liked, Finch and Fusco and perhaps the remnants of Control. They could’ve taken anyone, but they’d thrusted a picture of Root before her and now her brain can’t stop. Perhaps it would have drifted to her anyway.

Root stops, then, swings her arms by her side until she clasps them behind her back. “Well,” she sings, cocking her head to the side and daring to look cheeky, “I suppose they think I’m your link.” Shrugging, she says it like it’s obvious, “they've seen the video-”

“It was nothing.” Shaw gulps, it’s a reflex nowadays.

As always, always, always, Root’s face drops and the nod that lifts her head is mechanical.

(Root, Root, Root. So many mistakes, she thinks, and wonders how many she has to live through again.)

She wants to take it back, but the music has crackled out and the air has frozen between them. Shaw can see her breath in a bubble when she breathes out and she doesn't know how it’s suddenly gotten so cold.

“Nothing?” Root asks, as the walls tumble down and there’s snow at her feet. Again, again, again. “Was it really nothing, Shaw?”

She forgets. Before she can ask what they were even talking about, why there’s a tune lagging in her head and why her chest feels slightly heavy, they’re dragged into a completely different memory.

 

\--

 

5.

This is what she will remember:

Root’s neck, twisting and bending and breathing. Long in its length and soft to touch, Shaw had wrapped fingers around it and squeezed until she’d been clawed away. It happens regularly: when Root won’t shut up, when she gets too close, when she pushes fingers down below her waist and curls.

Sharp nails that scratch patterns into her thighs, when they have time, and Root always, always attempts to write her name before licking away the trails. Shaw only rarely lets her; feeling branded and bruised it so very often ends in a fight.

Giggling that quickly turns to cackling and the smile that comes with it. Root never could hold back, whilst Shaw could barely manage a grin.

A goodbye kiss pressed up. Hesitant in the pull, Shaw had remembered a slammed door and deadly vials and wanted another legacy to be remembered by. A button, a bullet, a cry that reverberated along the corridor and had sung for hours after they’d all left. Her lips had been cold throughout.

This is what she will remember:

Brown hair and long legs and a smile that reaches out forever. There was once a woman who broke her.

 

\--

 

4.

Root is bleeding out against her cushions, slouched across her couch and dying.

“Think you could play doctor again, Sweetie?” She’d asked, when Shaw had opened the door and tripped.

The towel held to her side is bloody and dripping, Shaw wants to leave Root here alone before she bursts. Back then, Shaw had ached and ached and ached and for the first time since this woman had come into her life, she’d felt herself fall.

Looking up, Root’s smile is slow. “You could’ve taken us anywhere,” she says, wincing, “I would've preferred it if it wasn't a memory where I was _dying_.”

“This is the first time.” Shaw whispers, ignoring Root completely. Her fingers are steady against the open wound and there’s a needle ready on the table behind them. Now, the blood pours just as heavy as it had done in reality. Root hums in question and Shaw swallows and glances up. “The first time I really knew you were different.”

It’s quiet; Root inhales shakily as Shaw presses harder. “Really?” She manages, sounding strained and ugly. “We’d already slept together, Sameen, don’t hurt my ego.”

“Yeah, but that was just sex.” She says, looking up and immediately regretting it. Turning back, Shaw can’t look up from Root’s wound, concentrates there and talks to the cloth in front. There’s a ball in her gut and it spins with every whimper that escapes Root’s lips. “I was so…” (not scared, never scared) “…sure you were going to die.”

Root laughs, it gurgles along her throat and doesn't sound as chirpy as usual. Even now, with the knowledge that they will both survive this, Shaw’s frown remains permanent. Caring, she finds herself thinking in parallel to this exact night, settles deep.

Sitting up a little, Root reaches down to rest her hand inches away from Shaw’s. “You should’ve told me.” She says, like it’s that simple.

“Told you what?” She can’t help but sneer, shake her head and revert back into herself. “That it would've been an inconvenience if you had died?”

“It was more than that.” Root says, without missing a beat. “Why can you never admit it?”

(Root, Root, Root. Remember, remember, remember.)

Shaw clenches her fist, watches Root hiss at the sudden movement against her abdomen and suddenly the blood is gone.

For a very brief moment, Shaw pulls her hand back and wonders why blood runs beneath her nails.

Looking up, she thinks she’ll forever remember this woman.

Looking up, she fears she’s starting to forget.

 

\--

 

3.

“What’s your name?” She asks, lying above the comforter and looking across.

Root frowns and leans back, her cheek dragging against the pillow. Before she can speak, Shaw sighs and continues.

“I mean, besides Root.” The light above flickers and Shaw vaguely remembers how cheap this hotel had been. Root’s bare chest heaves and Shaw has to force her eyes up and forward. “Like, you must have been given a proper name when you were born.”

Distantly, she feels like she should know the answer to this.

Root takes a while to answer, plays with the few strands of hair Shaw hasn't pushed behind her neck. “Samantha.” She whispers, eyes roaming across Shaw’s face. “You don’t remember?”

She shakes her head. “Samantha what?”

Blinking, Root looks like she’s about to break. Her hand runs up the sheets, threads through Shaw’s hair and brushes gently across skin. Pulling back to look up the length of Shaw’s body, Root squints when she meets her gaze. Far away but touching.

So quiet, Shaw has to lean in, Root says, “Groves,” and breaks.

Later, when the ceiling is thinning and the air is getting cold, Shaw watches the patterns fade against the walls.

“They’re taking me from you.” Root says, and it sounds familiar. “You need to remember.”

“Remember what?” She asks.

Pushing up on her elbows and climbing on top, Root’s smile falters as she whispers, “this.”

 

\--

 

2.

Twisting up from the sheets, Shaw recognizes the place immediately. She recognizes the frown above, the ache in her stomach and the throbbing between her legs. This was so very nearly her last goodbye.

There are vials in the sink but Shaw can only think about the thighs straddling her waist. Arching up, Root’s jeans offer no friction and Shaw so very often curses Root’s ability to strip her whilst always remaining clothed.

With a shirt hanging off her shoulders, Root leans down and presses her nails deeper into Shaw’s wrists.

“Say it.” She says, again, again, again. Shaw remembers instantly what is being asked of her, and grinds up instead. Root looks pissed. “Say it, Sameen.”

She hadn't said a word, back then. It had eventually left her with nothing.

“You were so unfair that night.” Shaw says, looking up at Root.

She isn't coming back though, still locked in the memory and tightening her grip, Root leans down to bite at Shaw’s lip and pulls.

Raging with jealousy, they’d come here and hadn't mentioned Tomas until Root had cracked.

“Say it’s more than a game, Shaw.” She says, gritting her teeth and grinding down. “Or else I’m leaving.”

It was impossible, at the time. Shaw had needed this to be simple, to be easy and quick. She’d become so good at ignoring Root’s looks, her smiles and the way she’d say things that rang deep and struck a chord. This wasn't fair.

Root’s hands had shook, her fingers had been warm and when she’d leant back her eyes had been desperate.

Just like before, in perfect resemblance of the memory playing out, Root had pulled back and away. Root had left her empty.

“You left.” Shaw says, still staring up at the ceiling above. At the bottom of the bed, Root hums.

“I buttoned my shirt up,” she agrees, watching Shaw sit up and watch. Button by button by button, Shaw feels something filter out. “And then I left.”

“You didn't have to.” Shaw says, because she knows after this it had been stilted and their lips had remained apart until she’d fallen. She barely remembers the details.

Nodding slowly, Root pulls her shoes on and says, “Sweetie,” as she turns to the door, “I did.”

Heart hammering heavy, Shaw doesn't think about being naked and jumps from the mattress to call out. “What if I’d said it?”

Root stops with a hand resting against the handle and looks back. “Then I would have stayed.”

There are vials and jealousy and a man she’d wanted to leave with still simmering between them, and yet Shaw strains to remember the details.

Soon, it will all be gone. Samaritan will have it all and Shaw will wake with a brief memory of a woman that had managed to dig deeper than anyone before her. Perhaps she’ll see a flicker of brown hair or leather, hear a click of a boot and a cheeky snicker and break somewhere hidden.

“I’ll say it.” She says, walking closer. “Just stay a little longer.”

Rolling her eyes and smiling, Root leans back against the door and looks Shaw’s naked body up and down before biting her lip. “I can’t exactly say no whilst you’re dressed like that.” She mutters, pushing off from the door and reaching out.

“Sometimes,” Shaw whispers, closing her eyes against the feeling of fingers threading around her waist. “I couldn't even convince myself this was nothing.”

“It was something.” Root hums, pressing nails to her back and leaning in to bite at Shaw’s jaw.

(Something, Shaw thinks, but very occasionally felt it was everything.)

 

\--

 

1.

(Remember, remember, remember.)

There’s an iron burning fast and a woman on her knees in front.

(Root, Root, Root. It all ends with her.)

There are lines she thinks she needs to say, words that started this and made this woman addictive. But Shaw can’t remember a thing. Looking around, she guesses she’s in a hotel and there’s muffled noises from behind one of the doors.

Briefly, Shaw recognizes that this isn't Veronica Sinclair. This is Root.

“I can barely remember you.” She says, watching Root blink back. The iron is dropped and forgotten. The heat is replaced by the cold and Shaw shivers and watches Root’s hand skirt up along her thigh. “I couldn't hide you.”

Root whispers when she talks. “Perhaps you did.”

Shaw remembers a beach, a car on fire and a woman that had slow danced in an empty bar.

“They've taken everything.”

Across from her, Root leans back and Shaw follows as the zip ties suddenly disappear. Standing and walking back, back, back until her knees buckle against the bed, Root shakes her head and clenches fists in the sheets below. It looks like she’s pleading when she says, “not me,” and then, “not yet.”

(Root, Root, Root. Samaritan will take it all.)

Walking closer, Root opens her legs for Shaw to stand between them. Adopting this identity, Root wears no leather and Shaw can’t help but reach down to rub a thumb along the collar. This is where it all began, and this may be the only thing she knows for sure. The hobby that started everything.

Pulling away and flopping back against the sheets, Root shuffles up to the headboard until she turns around and beckons Shaw to join. “I always did think we should’ve made use of this bed.” She says, tries for a smile that hesitates and drops. “Come and lie with me, Sameen.”

She can barely remember why she came here, recognizes this woman as her one constant and panics. Soon, it will all be over.

More than anything, she wants to climb on top of the comforter and crawl closer, capture Root’s lips and take, take, take all the things she spent so long denying herself. After pulling Root through the vast amount of memories she’s been forced to relive, it had almost felt like a sequence of mistakes.

She should have given in a long time ago, and yet she still remains immobile.

“Everything is gone.” Shaw says, looking up and watching Root shuffle against the sheets. “There’s just this.”

It seems like Root is almost distracted and it’s fitting, that their goodbye is so ordinary and simple. “What’s this?”

“You.” She says, watching absently as she disappears.

(Root, Root, Root.

Remember, remember, remember.

Please remember.)

 

\--

 

Waking up, the room is dim. She can’t remember a thing.

There are wires attached to her chest that run below a hospital gown and connect to a monitor that beeps steadily in the background. Beside her, an old man in a suit sits perched atop a stool and smiles.

“If this is the afterlife,” Shaw says, blinking across at him, “it sucks.”

The man chuckles and very slightly shakes his head. “I sincerely hope you managed to get some rest, my dear Sameen,” his voice is rough and smug and she can’t quite place it. “You’re going to need it.”

Before the words can register, the door in the corner of the room opens and a woman with brown hair marches in. Briefly, recognition sparks and she sees brown hair, leather and boots that always pushed her that much further away.

Briefly, she thinks _remember_ and thinks _something_ and thinks _Root_.

And then it’s all gone.

 

\--

 

 


End file.
